


Holmes and Watson

by C4L3B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, Historical Accuracy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C4L3B/pseuds/C4L3B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An 18th Century AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many parts of this fan fiction portray what it was like to live in the 18th century (1735-1770) as both a poor and rich civilian.   
> Several words used in this story are words that were commonly used in the 18th century that I will tag under each chapter.   
> Parts of this story portray events that happened during the 18th century such as the Jacobite Rising which only slight detail has been put into that.   
> Not all events however are accurate, I will try my best for accuracy on the history but if it doesn't go along with the story I may have to edit.   
> All wording mistakes is to my own fault and responsibility.  
> This is I should say my best-written piece I have done in my life.  
> I hope you enjoy and kudos or a comment would be very much appreciative!
> 
> Inspired by the great 1987 film “Maurice” by E.M. Forster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edited)

**_England, London   1735 – November, 19th_ **

Prevailing wind blows harshly against the flesh of those who stand, bitter chills running up through their spines and ice-cold raindrops fall from the dim, grey, cloudy sky onto the soiled ground. Arms wave silently through the cold air as cheers commence from the bottom of the villagers throats. Young children whom wear thin fabrics push ahead towards the front of the line, as droplets of snowflakes fall silently, melting onto their dirtied hair.

A sudden set of palms grip onto a fellows bruised shoulder, the ends of his hair being grabbed tightly into the fists of an aggressive man, as itchy ropes bound the fellow’s large wrists, making red and purple burns whilst cutting deep into the flesh.

The aggressive man, whom is very unattractive and has foul features such as his triangular shaped nose with several warts and creases on his face, and his dark greyed hair just covering his eyebrows - merely the stereotypical Russian looking character - kicks the fellow down onto the wooden panels so the fellow is now kneeling, and forces the fellows head onto a wooden block.

A young, brunette woman shrieks from the centre of her heart, her worn ragged dress dirtied from abuse just moments ago before entering the stand, and ropes that also bound tightly around her wrists, several other men who are making sure they keep a hold of her. She cries out for her beloved husband, repetitively begging the men or even so, God himself to spare her families lives.

The fellow pleads just as though he was an animal begging for food, ‘Please! Just let my wife and children go. You can have me all you want, just let them go, please!’ but his head is again forced down towards the wooden block painfully, straining his neck and making him mutter while doing so.

The men bring forward the young brunette woman as she squirms. The men forcefully try to place her head onto the other wooden block, placed just a few inches away from her husband, but she refuses and fights back with all her might, biting the men’s hands and kicking them.

The aggressive man, who is then distracted by her objection, turns around to see all the commotion behind him, and loses his temper, grabbing the woman by her hair like a ball and yells ‘Little bitch!’ He smacks her onto the hardwood floor, knocking her out for several of moments as her face appears harshly scraped, and red splodge marks appear onto her face whilst thin streaks of blood drip down from her cheek and scalp.

‘Go get the other rats then?’ the aggressive man sarcastically orders his brothers, his voice of an London accent, as the fellow turns his head to gape towards his wife, whispering if she could hear him and if she is all right. The woman coughs quietly to herself as blood gurgles up and out from her mouth and a slight stream of blood falls down from her nose to her upper lip.

The man, not yet finished with the woman, grabs her hair again and places her head onto the wooden block, shoving his white handkerchief inside of her mouth to gag her and not pleasantly clean either.

The crowd continues to cheer for the execution at hand. More villagers buying their way in to see the beheading and adults lifting their small children onto their shoulders so their child could see of a better view. Some religious ones crossing their hearts and praying for God to forgive the ones currently beheading, and the ones to be soon beheaded.

The men walk forth with a young child; they kick a young boy onto the wooden stand, the boy’s face filled with much hatred and pain and his wrists also bound tightly with a thin itchy rope.

‘Here’s the little bugger,’ one of the men say as the aggressive man turns around with a malicious grin on his face, his leather muddied boot kneeling onto the face of the boy’s mother, as the woman tries to scream,  her jaw being crushed.

The young boy watches, fury building up inside of his chest and tightening from what he has to witness, his own mother being tortured right in front of his own eyes.

The aggressive man removes his boot from the mothers face and steps towards the boy, the boy stepping back slightly, truly scared from this man’s actions, but he is pushed forward again by the men who stand behind him, who also lead him onto the stand.

The man forces the boy’s neck into his palms, the boy trying to dig his nails into the arms of the man but he is not strong enough to do so. The boy loses all strength in his body and is forced down onto the wooden panels. The man continues to squeeze the boy’s neck, so tightly to the wooden panels he could kill the boy right this very moment. The boy squeals struggling for air, kicking his arms and legs in the air from suffocation. The man lets go and shoves the boy onto the wooden block, tears that also fall down from the boy’s face where he also glances at the bloodstains spilled from other executions before him, now coloured a dark and vile brown.

The aggressive man holds tight onto the fellow’s neck so he does not move, and other men hold tight onto the woman and boy. ‘I love you, I love you so much, do not forget that!’ cries the fellow out towards his wife and son, but the aggressive man interrupts his ‘heart-warming’ speech by kicking the fellows nape, ‘Shut _it_!’

He handles a large heavy silver blade passed to him and places the blade lightly onto the fellow’s neck for correct positioning. The wife continues to scream however, not much is heard from the handkerchief stuffed in her throat. The aggressive man then surprisingly and very suddenly stops, and turns towards his brothers with a question on his mind, ‘Where’s the girl?’

The men look forth at him with confusion and for several of minutes they whisper to each other. One of the brothers taps another on the shoulder lightly and whispers a few words to the other, and then flees down towards the steps heading into a little wooden shack, just below the wooden stand where all prisoners are put for scheduled beheading.

He examines each and every soul, however not one of them was a young girl. He continues to glance at each individual, all men over their 50’s, boys just under the age of 13 and women of 2. He steps towards a long drawer just below a bordered up window, where a desk is also placed, and holds out a set of papers in his hands, looking at the date with who should be beheaded for this current moment. His plump fingers scan down the file until he finds the name he was looking for…

‘ _Harriet Watson, Age 7’_

The brother rushes back up onto the stand, towards his brothers were he explains the entire situation of the girl being missing. They gradually come to terms on their statements, anything was better than not to anger their eldest brother. He was a madman.

The brothers cough silently from their throats nudging one of the brothers in front. It seemed they had no other alternative than to tell their brother the unfortunate truth after all. One comes forth, as his palms shake and sweat anxiously worried about what his brother’s reaction will be.

‘Well?’ the aggressive man asks, clearly fed up.

The brother clears his throat again, his voice breaking doing so. ‘No girl, sir’ the brother reaches out to him, expecting the worst, but to all of their surprise, he just nods silently, grits his teeth, and lifts up the blade, which frankly silence was more fearful than his usual aggressiveness.

The blade arises in the air as a host narrates in the background from a haystack on lower ground. He wears a hat made from thin fabric and a shirt buttoned up to the very top of his neck so it looks as though he has no neck actually attached to his body. His nose round and plum red and his straw-coloured hair waved apart from the wind.

Rain still showers down from the pale sky as it soaks the iron blade, raindrops that run down towards the point of the blade and clings onto the end.

The boy closes his eyes as tightly as he can, until a wave of the wind comes swarming towards his direction so quickly he did not even expect it. Not even a one, two, or three. A large thump hits the ground and a heavy knock clutches onto the wood. The sound of blood splashes onto the ground and block.

He opens his eyes slightly to see the head of his father. He wails from pain, his heart truly poisoned by the evil he was brought into, as his hatred continues to overpower him leaving a massive hole right through his chest. He closes his eyes again as he hears his mother’s struggling and pain filling his heart and mind. The sound he just head, the wind giving a chill on every hair of his body.

The boys mind begins to play tricks on him; the wooden block beneath him forging into three blocks instead of one, and the pebbles on the ground curling into shrivels. He lets out a large gasp for air and liquid comes swarming up and out from his stomach to the ground. He coughs loudly as his head strains and his eyes fuzz up like a migraine. He tries to move his hand towards his mother’s for comfort, letting her know that he loves her and that everything he had ever done to upset her, he apologizes.

Just as he touches her cold and wet hand, another swarm of wind comes flooding towards his direction, ‘ _No!_ ’ and a loud thump rolls towards his arm. He winces and removes his hand as quickly as possible as  _it_ just stares towards his direction. The boy tries to gather all his breath from his lungs as his stomach aches. His mouth beginning to shake and tears start flooding down from the corner of his eyes whilst coming from the boy, sniffs and small moans.

The man places the blade on the boy’s neck for correct positioning then, which carves a slight cut on the neck so deep it may leave a scar. The man lifts the blade up to height slowly, the boy again and for the very last time, closes his eyes very tightly as his heart thumps away so loud he could feel the earth shake beneath his knees.

…

‘ _Sir_ ’ a loud voice suddenly rings through his eardrums as he opens his eyes quickly from panic to see the white ceiling above him. Jagged and swirling patterns.

Rich floral quilt covers his pale body, as a bright light swarms in from the silk red curtains covering the glassed window. He lifts his palms to his faired hair, stroking his fingers through the small strands and then removes them back down to his face, where there is a grown moustache.

‘Sir, the master has requested to see you. He would like you dressed as soon as possible.’ the voice speaks again but now very soft and light. A short, dark haired wench walks forth to place a bowl of water on the cabinet with a fine cloth floating inside, just hanging over the edge of it, and then opens the curtains wide open, as light shines through hitting against the room like a squeaky shine on the tip of a trophy. It was then when he realised he was not just awake from a dream, but awake from a memory.


	2. Chapter 2

**_England, London   1770 – January 7th_ **

Watson paces through the long corridors that echo with just the slightest bit of noise. A pin drop would sound like a loud bang along these corridors. Fine paintings hang across each wall like a large museum, individual paintings worth over at least 100 pounds each. Watson would have never of thought he would be living in an estate like this in his entire life, or an estate at all for that matter of fact.

Watson halts at a tall white door, where two polished golden knobs gleam into his eyes, not one spec of dirt to be seen at all on the metal - not as though Watson was paying attention to that. He knocks on the door twice, waiting for a reply to be heard, and at that moment a sudden set of sharp footsteps appear breaking the prolonged silence other than Watson’s heels tapping against the wooden floorboards and his short gasps for air.

A man opens the door with a rush of excitement on his face. ‘Ah, John. Come in!’ he says in a deep clear voice, his hair darker than oak wood as he approaches Watson with welcoming arms. Watson follows the man into the parlour were a piano is placed beside the window and a violin placed onto the newly furnished chair. The wallpaper floral, similar to his bed quilt and the wooden floorboards also polished that it was as if he was looking into a mirror.

Watson steps along towards the chair gestured to him, his heel making the only sound in the room once again, as he sits comfortably opposite Holmes. Holmes sits in his usual position, his long slender legs crossing the other while he taps his toes on the floor and his fingertips on the arm of the chair. A butler of Holmes paces along steady with a plate on his hand, filled with two cups of leaf tea and two filled with coffee for a decision of choice and some several side snacks on the edge.

Watson gently takes the warm cup of tea in his palms, gasping from the heat and places it in his lap, as Holmes does not even give a single effort to take any type of contact at all towards the plate, but twiddle a flintlock pistol around his index finger with his right hand.

‘You must eat something’ Watson implies waiting for his friends  _reply_ _,_  but instead he is treated with a small chuckle, which usually Holmes only does when suggesting Watson is being dull.

Watson glances at Holmes’ posture. He has always thought of Holmes like a god, the way he speaks in that deep tone of nonsense that half of the time does not even make sense to Watson, but he knows for sure he could listen to that voice for hours just nodding and agreeing. The way he sways like a cat pouncing on his pray. Holmes _has_ always been good at getting people tied around his little finger; he sure has done a pleasant job at it with himself. Along with the attire, Holmes is currently wearing: a rich long navy coat and waistcoat underneath made from the finest silk and lined with buckram. This man could not have been any more perfect.

Watson fairly remembers it was not too long ago when Holmes and his self’s friendship was nothing more than a measly acquaintance. Someone you would greet every so often and forget about them in that split second, having to be reminded of who they are, to Holmes that thought was. Watson could not forget about Holmes once he laid eyes upon him, but Watson is sure Holmes thought differently the day they met, even if the man is particularly hard to read at times.

Holmes thought of him as just another dreary human being added on to the population. Watson had never quite understood why Holmes suddenly became intrigued by his presence; after all, he was and always will be another dreary human being added on to the population.

The first time Watson and Holmes were introduced to each other was the year 1748, when Watson was a young man and had returned from the Jacobite War just two years before, 1746 and decided to further his education at an All Boy’s Private Institution.

Joining the army may or may not have been the best decision of Watson’s life. Luckily, he was paid well and with all his might wanted to find his younger sister after losing contact with her ever since that day that still haunts him, however, for all he knew she could have already been killed.

Somewhere in Watson’s mind, he wished he had never come back from the war. Wealth did not mean anything to Watson as much as having a family, and he had in fact made a family during training. A new family dear close to him, brothers that stood by him. Indeed, it was better than being laboured into the workhouse scavenging for food every hour of the day, as he had to cope with for many of years. Maybe this was the best thing, to live a life full of wealth and happiness.

Moreover, after a year of returning from the Jacobite war, Watson had just started to adjust himself to the wealthier side of life. He was not one of the nobility but he was still rather wealthy. Watson continued to treat himself as one of the poorer civilians however. He was raised in a poorer society and the things he had to go through growing up were not the style of a wealthy man. Nevertheless, although Watson was now a changed man, he continued to plea to himself that he was not going to forget about the life he had before, before he entered the war. It may not have been pleasant but it was the only memory he would have left of his parents.

The war haunted Watson every single minute of his life since he returned. The loud noises of shells being shot into the polluted air, vibrating against his eardrums. The clear anagrams of waves of men charging towards him with their weapons. More shells hitting the air into those who ran and their blood being splashed all over the grounds and other decaying bodies from days before. If it were not for Watson’s dear friend Stamford, he would have been put into a mad house by now.

Watson had not much of an education before the war, but along the way, he roughly managed more of reading and writing, and a little Latin was also useful from his fellows. He had a talent with medical supplies; he served many men in the army with his amateur skills and they blessed him with their lives, said he was more or less a professional physician which Watson took as those just being pleasant. Watson was then accepted into College and that was the day when he stepped foot into the grounds where his completely new life had begun.

       

**_England, London   1746 – July 4th_ **

The grounds were flooded with students at every corner, those who were slightly wealthier than others were, and those who just managed to get into the College itself. Their uniforms were slightly dull but looked more or less decent from what Watson had to wear in the workhouse, from those many years ago living as a young boy. The uniform consisted of a long black tailcoat flailed down to the shins were a black or dark navy waistcoat fitted underneath, covering a white tailored shirt. Black breeches down to the ankles and classy leather shoes fitted onto the toes. Socks that were neatly pulled up just under the kneecaps, and fringes and hair slicked back to the skull, as some wore white curled wigs stuck onto their heads just to make those look more sophisticated.

All of the students were presented numbers to their dormitories onto a little piece of paper; two students shared a room each along with the studying equipment already placed into their dormitories. Watson strolled along the corridors looking for his room number on the doors with a leather pouch fitted neatly around his right shoulder and his given room number held in his palm.

 _‘234 - Second of third floors’_ _it_ read.

He reaches his dormitory and halts at the centuries old wooden door with slight cracks and dents in it, the room number carved into the door with metal plates. He begins whispering to himself under his breath that everything will all turn out fine and that whomever his room fellow may be it will _all_ , _be, fine_.

‘You need any help there, fellow?’ a sudden voice appears, the air catching just at the back of Watson’s neck. Watson turns around from sudden fright to see a young man standing behind him with a piece of paper also held in his hand, and several of books held up close against his chest. His hair was shaded a light brown but some of his hair was already turning an unnaturally light grey. ‘You’re not _mad_ , are you?’

Watson glances at the man and then snickers slightly from bashfulness. Truthfully, Watson was more than mad, ‘Ah, no. Not at all’

‘Could you,’ the man shrugs his books suggesting for Watson’s help to open the door, with a warm smile upon his face.

‘Yes’ Watson replies with a quick reaction, turning the knob and stepping inside of the dorm as the man follows, pacing towards the nearest desk to sit his clump of books on.

‘Thank you,’ the man blesses Watson and sighs with relief, and then holds out his palm for acquaintance, ‘My name is Gregory Lestrade.’

Watson returns the handshake and replies, ‘John Watson.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18th Century Translation
> 
> Fellow - Man
> 
> 100 pounds - Just over 6,000 pounds today
> 
> Dull - Boring, Stupid
> 
> Pleasant - Nice
> 
> Workhouse - Poorhouse
> 
> Nobility - A noble of class, wealthy
> 
> Aristocrats - The wealthiest
> 
> Physician - Doctor
> 
> Mad - Insane
> 
>  
> 
> What was the Jacobite War?
> 
> http://www.bbc.co.uk/scotland/education/as/jacobites/std/?p=factbg1


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edited)

The dormitory was rather big considering Watson was only at College to study. There were two desks, one nearest the window opposite the door, and one near a small bookshelf on the right side of the door. There were two beds placed at each corner and the whole room was more or less separated into two from where the furniture was set.

Watson lies comfortably on his bed, the mattress springing up against his back slightly as the sheets underneath him melt behind his back. Watson rests his palms softly above his stomach, as he smoothly touches his fingertips across his coat fabric and fiddles with the few neatly stitched plastic buttons of his waistcoat, his eyelids closing fairly. It had been a long time since Watson had been able to rest peacefully for once in his life, but it wasn’t too long when the horrid memories of gore came flashing back into his mind, like a hawk and its prey. The killings of his family and the killing spree of the soldiers he slaughtered himself flashing back and forth into his mind, making Watson feel rather dizzy although he was asleep, from the very thought.

Watson had not thought much about the soldiers he was killing during the War at the time. To him, they were just targets, pawns, nothing more than a dust of wind to get rid of off his shoulder. It was not until later he realised they were human beings, people with a personality, a life, and the worst thing about it was to know Watson had slaughtered them all. They may have been the enemies but they were just trying to achieve as what Watson was: someone from a poor family, fighting for wealth to feed their loved ones or to feed their selves, to fight for their country, to make a living.

They were all like puppets if you thought about it carefully, including Watson. It was a game of chess. The players, which Watson’s former General took that place, instructing the knights to move across the chessboard to defend their king and queen. Each and every soul sacrificing their selves whilst fighting against the other team without a thought of knowledge, just the player’s hand and their knowledge. You could not quit once you were there, you had to do your duty of a soldier or the enemy, or worse your own country, slaughtered you.

Detailed images of the man who slaughtered his family then entered Watson’s mind, the man’s devilish laugh filled with mock and the way his eyes sparkled for the love of execution, disrespecting his mother by smacking her to the floor and leaning onto her face with his muddied boot. It made Watson’s skin crawl just knowing that he was thinking about it.

Chattering suddenly commences throughout the dormitory and Watson lies in his same position on the fluffed bed, as the chattering then gets slightly louder, echoing back and forth against the hollow walls.

‘Be quiet, would you?’ whispers Lestrade on the right side of the dorm, sitting at his desk with a notebook, ink and quill in front of him.

‘Why should I? Shouldn’t we all be studying, not lying around sleeping all day’ states the unfamiliar voice.

‘Since when have you cared about what anyone else does?’

Another voice then interrupts, slightly higher than the other and with a slight wisp of the tongue, ‘I could use a little fun around here,’ the fellow suggests, snatching the inked quill from Lestrade’s desk and both of the unfamiliar men pace over towards Watson’s bed.

‘Leave the fellow alone, he’s a pleasant fellow, unlike you two.’ Lestrade retorts, having to get up from his chair towards his mad friends. The fellow who handles the inked quill in his palms moves closer towards Watson’s bed as Watson’s eyes flutter slowly, and his body twitching in short seconds.

Lestrade turns to the man on his right while laying a palm on his shoulder merely begging. The man does nothing but respond by eyeing the hand placed on his shoulder, as Lestrade then removes it.

The fellow leans in his left hand onto the mattress for support, his other hand moving up quietly to Watson’s face. He turns around quickly, smirking to his fellows trying to impress the other man in particular and then forwards the quill just an inch from Watson’s face.

Unexpectedly, just before the fellow manages to draw something on Watson’s face, Watson yells aloud, “ _No!_ ” and pounces at the man. What the other men did not know was that Watson was in fact asleep. He strangles the fellow tight with powerful force to the ground, the fellow squealing from suffocation and begins to turn a light colour of red. Teardrops fall down from the corners of Watson’s eyes as he continues to live his nightmare all over again.

The fellow drops the quill held in his hand onto the wooden panels, it rolls silently onto the floor just underneath Watson’s bed, small black ink spots splashing in a jagged line, and that is when Watson awakes. He continues to suffocate the fellow until he fully realizes what he is doing. The men come forth and grab Watson off the fellow shoving him back onto the wall behind him.

The fellow lies on the floor gasping for air for several of minutes, as he then slouches back up from the floor, touching his neck with both palms as he breathes loudly, his face regaining back to its original colour slowly, “You prick!” he shouts wheezing.

Watson just stares from terror of what had just happened. He thought everything he was doing was in his sleep, a nightmare. He was strangling a man who had killed his family, not a man he has never even met - or seen for that matter - in his life. He would never do anything as such…not out of pleasure.

His heart pounds fast, loud, and deep from his chest, as if it went on any longer it would just rip right out of his chest. Watson continues to stare at the men who just stare back, his words muddling up around his mind as he also puffs aloud, but quietly to him.

 

Everything went so fast; Watson had no idea what to say. Supposedly, _‘_ _I am sorry_ _’_ may have been a good idea but Watson was so stunned and admittedly scared he could not even say that. He was speechless from his own actions and he knew that by saying nothing at all, would not help the situation one bit.

‘He’s even just standing there! Are you _witless_ or something?’ the man continues, alarming neighbouring students next door, as he fully stands now with clear red hand marks shown around his neck, and then fixes his collar.

The other man beside the fellow gapes towards Watson, with a calm expression on his face as if nothing had happened, but Watson knew something was behind the way he was staring. It was not a usual stare someone would show. Watson could not describe the stare, all he knew was it was very unusual and Watson did not like it one bit. He felt as though the stare was thrown at him from pity or as if he was an alienated fool.

Lestrade, on the other hand, had a face of pure shock from what had just happened. He had not known Watson very long, maybe even several hours or so, but Watson still felt humiliated and Lestrade could tell.

Silence continued to occur between the men, until thankfully the unusual man then breaks the silence by saying, ‘Moriarty, let’s go’ he turns towards the fellow on his left.

The fellow snorts in retaliation from the words he had just heard, which made the whole atmosphere just a little bit more serious because his eyes glinted with hatred as if he was burning from fire. He replies with gritted teeth, ‘ _You’re joking_?’

The unusual man just looks at him as though it meant a code. Surprisingly and frighteningly, the one named Moriarty stares back at the man with another small smirk on his face and then scoffs as though he pities the man. He paces out towards the door with not another word said, the unusual man following whilst eyeing Lestrade slowly, and then gives a short glance towards Watson.

Watson continued to stare and he felt himself crushing his fingers against his palms stiffly together. Supposedly, it was now a good time to at least explain something about what just happened, since two less people had now left the room, ‘I really didn’t know what I was doing. I just, I get these, _nightmares_ and –‘

Unconditionally, Lestrade interrupted by clearing his throat coming out towards Watson as a raspy cough and Watson stopped, not finishing his sentence and taking Lestrade’s actions to the very worst. Lestrade took a short breath and then said, ‘I should go. It _is_ lunch and we don’t get very long. My friends are probably waiting.’

Watson nodded in reply, feeling just as an alienated fool, the description he still could not get out of his mind from earlier thoughts, and walked towards his desk, sitting on his chair, which creaked quietly from his weight.

‘You uh, can join us, if you would like?’ Lestrade then asked, feeling slight guilt noticing he had interrupted the man whilst he was trying to apologise.

Watson politely declined, pointing towards his books. ‘No, I should try and catch up on these.’

‘Right…’ Lestrade replied awkwardly as both of the men, one standing and the other sitting froze in silence. ‘Well, if you do ever change your mind. We will be at dorm 229, just down the hallway a bit.’ Lestrade spoke again, then forcefully tightened a smile and rushed out towards the door, closing it behind himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edited)
> 
> This may be a last chapter since I have writers block and I'm not too sure where this story is heading. I'm just writing as I go along, there was no plan to begin with. If you want more chapters or have any ideas at all, give me a heads up!

A large rush of relief flooded Watson’s mind once he realized that the whole situation would now be over once he was the only being left in the dorm. Watson had lost his appetite from all the commotion. Howeverhe _had_ only woken up from a prolonged and dreadful sleep, so maybe being awake on an empty stomach would make Watson feel even worse. Watson decided to pay his attention to his study, after all, that is why he was here in the first place and sleeping through his supposedly studying hours was not a good start to his first day.

Watson could not stop feeling the absolute humiliation. He had never been so humiliated in his life. He realised his nightmares had gotten slightly worse during the past couple of weeks before starting College, which he passed himself off as just being anxious, but to the extreme of harming another, unconsciously or not, Watson was very frightened of himself.

He took a large sigh and rubbed his eyelids with his wet hands, soothing his face and then led his palms up to his forehead to massage himself from the stress, and then rested his palms back down again onto his knees whilst he stared blankly at the wall. He reached for the top novel of his neatly piled books, and placed it in front of himself. He opened the novel and turned to the very first page of the book, the page itself blank as tall, thin black letters spread across the page, reflecting against the white, ‘ _Introduction to becoming a Physician’_

He turned the page to the first chapter and read the first line slowly, five times finding it very hard to concentrate, until he then found himself slightly interested when he reached the second paragraph, but then started again from the very first because he lost concentration again. He closed the book altogether. The only way Watson knew calming his mind would be, was to get his thoughts off his mind, in other words, by apologizing to Lestrade and that fellow he was with, if he is there with him. Hopefully, everyone had calmed down by now, it had been a good fifteen-minutes passed, amazing how time flies. Watson decided it was the best alternative.

Watson stepped outside of his dorm and closed the door behind him, however, just before Watson thought about heading off, he realised he could not actually remember the exact room Lestrade had mentioned. ‘ _Just down the hallway’_ was all Watson had remembered and he did know that the numbers began with a double two. Watson tried to remember roughly what dorm Lestrade had mentioned and thought, ‘ _221_ ’ not entirely sure on himself, but it was worth a try, at least.

He headed down the long and gradually getting cold corridors, noticing some other students hanging around near a library. He reached the dorm he was looking for and halted; looking at the decorative carves on the door for a couple of minutes to calm himself. The metal plates ‘ _221_ ’ fairly shining across his eyes. Watson was not one to feel anxious, he had always been a strong and willing man, but currently Watson’s palms were sweating like a wild pig roasting on a campfire.

He knocked on the door twice. No reply was answered. Watson knocked again waiting for a second reply but again, no one answered. He then heard a slight sound of movement coming from inside of the dorm and deliberately opened the door to peak through, recklessly as though it was. Watson forced himself to clear his throat, which came out unfortunately quiet and then called out Lestrade’s name, not too loud to alarm anyone in case it was the wrong room.

Watson was now inside of the dorm, it was quite rough, and untidy inside compared to Watson and Lestrade’s dorm. There were large amounts of books on many subjects such as _Science, Art, Music,_ and even _Home Economics_. The books were scattered along the floorboards, desks, coffee table, even one somehow hanging from the chandelier like a piece of thin thread. Some specimen of god knows what was burned into the coffee table and Watson freakishly spotted a human skull sitting on a chair, supported by a crimson pillow underneath it, as though whoever placed it there wanted the skull to have some comfort. Watson hopefully suppressed it as being a fake skull rather than being a real human skull. Whoever dorm this was had obviously stayed in the same dorm for a couple of years.

The dorm also had more furniture than Watson’s dorm had. It felt more alive as if he was inside of someone’s parlour, not a dorm inside of an All Boy’s College. Most people, if they heard no-one answer a door would walk away, or peak inside and realise no-one was present, and then walk away, but Watson being particularly nosey and strangely interested in the objects and furniture placed in the dorm, wanted to investigate more. Or rather, make an acquaintance with whoever lodged here. Apologizing to Lestrade and the other fellow was far off from Watson’s mind by now, it did not take long for something to catch Watson’s eye and then become easily distracted by it.

Watson paced a little further into the dorm. He took the book hanging from the chandelier and sat it onto the coffee table whilst sitting himself on the chair just opposite it. He fairly opened the book, reading the first few lines and then closed it.Whilst he sat admiring the dorm even though it was rather a mess, he noticed a small, antique, instrument placed neatly against the leg of the coffee table just beneath his feet. He ran his fingers smoothly across the body of the instrument; it was very smooth and shaded a beautiful mahogany red. Watson guessed it was very rare, and yet Watson had not stopped himself from handling it.

Watson was far from sure on what exactly he was doing, for all he knew he could have been sitting in a stranger’s dorm, peaking around through their things and handling their instrument, which seemed more likely from the way things were going so far. Watson decided he had to leave the dorm immediately before something regrettable would happen. He had no idea what he was thinking and it was clear that this was not the room Lestrade had mentioned.

As he walked forth to the door, coincidently and unfortunately, the wooden knob turning left, the sound of the knob rolling around the pin of the inside layer of the door. Watson panicked and he was sure he was going to get punched from entering someone else’s dorm. He stepped back near the chair knowing that there would be nowhere to hide, as the room had no other rooms attached to it. It was just a large spaced out dorm, cut into two, which was again very unfortunate. He stood still, his heart thumping away, waiting for the student to come forth, and trying to think of an explanation.

A man walked forth into the dorm, stopping from the very sight of Watson who was awkwardly standing by his chair. It was the unusual man who was there in his dorm from earlier on, when Watson had unconsciously and still regrettably attacked that fellow.

 _Shit,_ Watson thought to himself.

The two men continued to stare at each other for a couple of moments until Watson broke off the silence, his lips very dry from dehydration and hunger, ‘Ah’ he forcefully clears his throat, ‘Wrong room’ he continued, trying to joke off the whole atmosphere with a short and quick chuckle just as he finished. He paused trying to think of another explanation but harshly failed, ‘I was looking for someone and I- well’

The man glanced at his instrument just behind Watson’s back, now laying on his chair and Watson noticed that he had noticed, his hands sweating still as he clasped them tightly.

 _Ohhh, shit._ He thought again.

‘What do you think of it?’ the man asked strangely, Watson finally being able to hear the man speak, his voice very deep and pure, obviously a high classed man. His voice was different from what Watson was expecting it to be, better to be truthfully honest. Although he had spoken before when Lestrade and that other fellow was in Watson’s dorm, Watson’s mind was elsewhere, more focused on the situation at hand and did not manage to catch the sound of his voice. Nevertheless, he was glad he didn’t because hearing it now.

Watson tried to catch the man’s question. ‘Sorry?’ John replied clearing his voice as he focused his eyes on the man’s face. The man’s eyes were shaped narrow as his pupils dilated from the small light coming forth from the window, the colour pale blue and grey, very clear right in front of Watson’s eyes which looked beautiful and magnificent. His lips also pale as his upper lip curved and his cheekbones stuck out a few inches making the other features of his face very noticeable and quite feminine.

‘The violin, you held it didn’t you?’ the man asked not expecting an answer in particular. He took a short and quiet inhale for air, ‘Coming from the smudge mark on the body of my violin and the slight crease on your shirt from where you placed it, the guilt on your face and your body reactions such as Sweat, Clasping fists together, shaking under the temples when I entered the room. You were more focused on knowing that you had dismissively handled a possession that looked rather dear to someone and rare rather than being inside of someone else’s dorm altogether.” he said clinging onto the last words and again taking another short inhale for the final touch down. “That all comes to the conclusion, that you held my violin, am I wrong? Now please, if you will,” the man stepped aside gesturing Watson to the door behind him, expecting Watson to be offended by his strange deduction and to leave without a word to be said, or rather waiting for a punch to the face, which had in fact happened countless of times. In fact, what the man had not realised that he for was once in his life, was not correct about what Watson’s final reaction would be.

Watson stood in the same spot as before, frozen and baffled from the man’s speech. Watson had taken in the man’s warning, the man said loud and clear the he wanted Watson to leave, but before Watson could even think of leaving, he took a slight turn to glance at the violin and focused on the instrument, whilst the man watched Watson doing so. The man’s brows rising never having had this happen before. The man was confused and surprised on Watson’s reaction. He had never had anyone stay more than two minutes in his presence after humiliating them before. Watson continued to stand, looking at the violin, and trying to spot the smudge mark on the Violin from his very distance, which also, the man was a few inches further away from Watson and Watson could not grasp the concept of the man being able to notice a mark at all.

Watson could not quite understand how the man had done it, how did he deduce everything Watson admittedly felt. Yes, the man had humiliated him, astoundingly and supposedly, someone else would have been offended by it if he had done the same to them, but Watson was amazed. He had not seen anything like it and wanted to know with all his gut _how_. ‘You must have had many people say this countless of times, but,’ Watson paused still trying to figure out himself how this man could have possibly done it, and the man interrupted before Watson could say what he truly thought.

‘It is foolish, alienated, and stupid. Please, save your breath. I have heard it all before‘

 ‘No,’ Watson stopped the man before he could say anymore and a bright smile appeared on Watson’s face still amazed, “No…it was amazing. I have never seen anything quite like it. It was just brilliant, astounding.”

The man paused for a few moments and pursed his lips together, feeling quite good about himself. He had never been praised before which did make him wonder why this man was so different from any other man. He was not exactly the most attractive man, or smartest, or wealthiest in the world. He was an average and ordinary British man just barely making a living through daily life; Holmes was very surprised how this man was even facing him in a College like this. However, aside the fact, what had made him so different to any other man that Holmes could not identify?

He held his head high as though he had just won a prize and tried to hold back his smile, as if, if he was now going to be seen as being ‘amazing’ and his observing ‘astounding’ he was not going to stop now by being seen with a weakness such as a gleeful expression across his face. He was, more or less, showing off as a child would to their parent knowing they could so something that their parent could do. He cleared his throat, ‘Thank you’ he replied, the words feeling unusual and numb as he said it.


End file.
